Unbeaten by the Rain
by Penrose Quinn
Summary: What Katsuki Bakugo didn't expect was that he had to learn heroism from some weak Pro Hero he'd met all battered up in the public playground.
1. Bakugo I

The problem was: there _wasn't_.

"—hey, kid . . . what's your problem?"

None of her damn business, that's what. If anything, there was something wrong with her face: a swollen bruised cheek, a bloody nose, and a busted lip. There's a couple of All Might band aids on her exposed shins and was that a broken heel? Tch. It's pathetic. Bakugo hadn't bothered staying away from a complete stranger because he's not afraid of a fight if it went that way and he's not stupid to not mistake the woman in question as a Pro Hero. Whoever she was, it didn't matter. He never gave a shit about weak heroes.

In the suburban playground, Blue Hair stood out like a sore thumb with her ruined get-up as she sat on the old swing with a can of cold coffee on her cheek. Her presence was already rankling his foul mood more than it should; there's already the slightest tingle of sparks in his palm. Why Bakugo was still sitting next to her, he didn't need a reason. This was _his_ turf, which meant that was _his_ swing she's sitting on.

Fucking trespasser, that's what she was.

Her head tilted to the side, which did manage to make her flinch from the livid bruise on her throat. Clumsy idiot.

"You know," Blue Hair drawled out, opening her canned coffee with a pop, "if I were you, I'd let someone treat that elbow to a clinic. You can get an infection with that."

Instinctively, his left arm moved and Bakugo didn't let himself wince, not even once. It wasn't bleeding anymore, but how did she notice that? It was all covered up by the thick sleeves of his jacket. No one knew about it. Not even fucking Quirkless Deku.

Flashing small explosions from his hands, Bakugo gave a guttural growl. "How did you—"

And then suddenly, Bakugo blinked. He felt . . . calm.

"There." Blue hair smiled, unfazed by his violent outburst, as she leaned casually on her palm before giving in to a wince. There's an ugly bruise on her wrist, a roll of bandages wrung on her neck. "Feeling any better?"

"Yeah . . . wait a second, fuck _no,_ " Bakugo carped, shaking his head in the wild manner his mother always scolded him for. "What the hell did you do?"

Blue hair blinked with those wide annoying amber eyes of hers. Lifting a one-shoulder shrug, she pressed a finger to her lips. "That's a secret," she said before snapping her fingers, as if she's doing some stupid magic trick—because the abnormal feeling resurfaced again, "and wow, that's a short fuse you got there, kiddo."

His shoulders became lax, as if he'd taken sedatives. But Bakugo wasn't the sort to give in to a daze for too long; he hated the feeling just as he started to hate what she'd been doing to make him feel so tranquilized right under his nose. It only took a matter of seconds for the unusual calmness to subside with his flaring familiar fury. He cracked a knuckle.

Gritting his teeth, Bakugo warned, "Fucking stop _that_ ," and in the off chance she wasn't in the mood to listen, there was the conspicuous threat of explosive palms to send the message. Pro Hero or no, he wasn't adverse to idea of blowing up someone away. He hated the lack of control and the control of some blue-haired freak.

"Colorful language," Blue Hair retorted, drinking in large gulps of coffee from its can. "You kiss your mom with that mouth?"

Oh, Bakugo never did like the smartasses. Especially the ones that kept running their mouths.

 _Bite your damn tongue or something._ His lips jutted out into a snarl. "Shut up!"

Blue Hair shrugged insouciantly. "Just trying to help."

"Didn't ask for it, shit face."

And he _never_ will, ever.

Not seeming to take the hint—which made Bakugo consider if there was something wrong in her head—Blue Hair grabbed another can of coffee from her grocery bag. It was the same one she drank; chilled, black brew, and some kind of foreign brand that had a distinct strong scent. "Want one?" she grinned, her feet swaying under the creaky swing, "Well, unless you're highly sensitive to caffeine, that is," she told him before muttering to herself: "hm, that's a big no."

"Stop talking already, dammit," Bakugo grumbled under his breath.

"So you are," Blue Hair shrugged. "No coffee for you then."

"That's not what I meant!"

"I'll take that as a yes then," her hand shot up, reaching the canned coffee to him. "Here."

It'd been a second or two, when a burst of smoke and flame blasted from his hand and the explosion hadn't even dented a single scratch on her. Blue Hair was quick, Bakugo would give her that. Although he would rather lean on the conclusion that she was just lucky and that the killing intention that gushed out of him was giving it away. Just a lucky weak bitch.

Untroubled by his assault, Blue Hair tutted. Like a fucking parent. "Now, now, I know you're upset, kid," she said, cradling the canned coffee to her chest. "But the least thing you should do is pass the offer. It won't do good if you waste coffee by blowing things up." Now Bakugo was really tempted to set off that damn coffee again, in front of her face.

"I don't give a shit about your shitty coffee," Bakugo said, wearing a deep scowl. "Besides it tastes terrible."

There was the slightest look of offense on her battered face. Good. He hit a nerve. "Different tastes, kid," Blue Hair interjected before hooking her thumb under her chin. "For an eight year-old, you sure have some bad temper there," she hummed for awhile—he even counted the seconds—because those amber eyes were less obnoxiously bright and more speculative and analytical. It made him want to badly hit her for the long unwanted suspense. For the way she appeared like she just assumed she knew what his problem was, how he ticked and turned.

Smoke unfurled from his fingertips, a crackle of fire licking at the edges, Bakugo was pissed off; she should be sorry for that.

Blue Hair finally opened her mouth. "I bet you've blown up other kids with that quirk."

That's because they fucking deserved it. Bakugo didn't bother denying it.

"Why'd you care?" Bakugo snapped, torn knuckles flushing white. "It's not like it's your goddamn business."

And then Blue Hair smiled. It was an easy smile, nostalgic almost. "That's the thing, kid," she said, helping herself with another cold can of coffee. "It's a hero's job to meddle with someone's business," and then she took a swig, as if she'd been drinking hard liquor, "or that's what they say, anyway."

Bakugo scoffed. "Some fucking hero," he told her in a low mocking tone, partly satisfied that she seemed to be taking his words to heart. That it must have hurt—because if it hurt, it served a bloody good reminder. "Must've been why you're all battered up and bleeding," this time, a smirk stretched out his lips; cruel and menacing. She was just a weakling and she should know her place at the bottom. How could a weakling know what it's like to be a hero, to be the greatest? "I bet you couldn't even handle the meddling part."

Blue hair drew a quiet breath. "I guess you're right," she admitted, catching him off guard. "But does it matter, in the end?"

For once, Bakugo found himself at a loss of words. He listened, despite himself.

Her hands were pale and trembling from the strain, but Blue Hair held her can in a firm grip as if the bruises on them never affected her. Her eyes flashed a burnished gold from the gaslights. "I'm beat up, sure. Doesn't mean I don't try," she said with conviction; strong and steady, reminding him of fire. "Saving someone, anyone really, as much as you can . . . that's," then she must have held a breath, seized a sentiment, from the words that spilled from her lips: "that's what matters."

His fists clenched at that, intense heat pooling from his palms. There's still a dull ache on his elbow. "Tch," Bakugo averted his eyes away. The look in her eyes annoyed the shit out of him. "I don't need saving, shitty hero."

Blue Hair blinked at the comment. "Sure you don't. You're a tough brat," her mouth curled into a genuine smile, "but, seriously, if you don't let someone treat that wound, an infection might get to you first and it's in it for a world of pain for you, kid," and then she offered her hand, beckoning him. "At least, let me patch it up."

"No way," Bakugo practically barked at her, leaning as far as he could. "Piss off. Leave it alone."

Sighing, Blue Hair rolled her eyes. "Here," she tossed a small plastic pouch at him. "Catch."

Bakugo looked down at the item on his palms. It was a first aid pouch.

"If you're going to keep it from your mom, then you better patch it up yourself then," Blue Hair stated. "Clean it up first. Then apply the plaster. It's your problem now when you bandage it up. Well, there's the internet for you, real lifesaver."

His brow twitched. "I'm not an idiot."

"Didn't say you were," Blue Hair stood up, heels kicking back on the filthy sand. With a grocery bag at hand, she turned back to glance at him. "Oh, and thanks, I guess?"

"For _what_ now," Bakugo demanded, despite losing his patience with her. He would have stuck with the idea of cussing her until she left for good however a small part of him—perhaps, the quiet nagging one—was curious of her answer. He was certain she wasn't going to praise him or anything, but there was suddenly a strange weight in her eyes and he considered the thought that maybe she wasn't going to spout out some kind of stupid bullshit before she'd disappear.

"Pep talk," Blue Hair said, pushing back a blue lock of hair behind her ear. "Some self-reflection helped me a bit," she admitted, and then slowly, surely, gave him a knowing look, "hm, but I think you'll need it too, kid."

Bakugo was about to storm after her. "What's that supposed to—"

This time, it wasn't the calm. Bakugo was left with the feeling of steadfast assurance. Of support and confidence that strove to build him up and raise him till he could reach the sun from the palm of his hand. In different circumstances, he would have claimed he'd always known the feeling like a second nature, but it didn't feel as vain and shallow as it should have, like the times he'd been praised in a classroom full of talentless idiots.

This felt earned. This felt fleeting. Maybe even, almost underserved, but he'd never admit it. Because this must have been what triumph tasted like, when motivation was just at the tips of your fingers, and for a second, he was left believing he'd known what it felt like, screaming out All Might's famous words: _Have no fear for I am here!_

I am here. Bakugo was half convinced he referred the line to himself, living in the moment where fear feared him, but the manic smile on his face didn't last long when he found himself staring at the distance, catching the spindly figure of the woman limping away, torn and beaten shitless. He wouldn't really acknowledge it, but it's almost as if she stood tall and proud, the shadow beneath her feet like a great mantle.

It echoed again: _I am here._ She wasn't All Might, but she did feel like a hero. Sort of. Whatever.

Well, it's not like she'd hear it from him anyway.

* * *

 **A/N:** Not sure whether to continue this or not. I just had to get this out somewhere because I'm just curious of the idea of Bakugo having another figure to look up to, from a weakling at that. Though, really, I should be more anxious if I got eight-year old Bakugo's character right. Anyway, thanks for reading!

* * *

 **Disclaimer: I do not own Boku no Hero Academia**


	2. Bakugo II

It was by a year and a half later that Bakugo learned about her name.

It's not like he cared enough to search after her. After all, he forgot about her for the latter half of that year.

"Oh, it's you."

There was a woman in front of him, encountering him from a dank alleyway, of all places. Her hair was strikingly blue and her eyes strikingly amber, as if her goddamn genetics demanded the extra attention. It didn't mean he hadn't seen flashier appearances per se, but he couldn't point a finger as to what made her looks so particularly affecting to him.

To get things straight: it _wasn't_ attraction. It leaned on annoyance more than anything, with that dumb shade of hair color and those red and green band aids stamped on the backs of her feet, crammed in gaudy tangerine-orange heels. She looked like she was about to trip on them. Kind of pathetic-looking, really.

After dragging himself in a scuffle, Bakugo wasn't really in the mood for small talk. "Who the hell are you?" he spat on the ground, wiping the corner of his mouth, tongue tasting of iron. There's the slight sting of a bruise under his chin. He nearly growled. The scum actually managed to land a hit on him.

The stranger tapped her foot _loudly_. And she had the damn nerve to be impatient with him. "Oh c'mon, I wasn't even wearing a mask back then," she went on, her voice saturated with disbelief. "Jog your memory, kid."

Bakugo glowered at her, hard and intimidating. Just the sort of piercing glare that would leave some poor wimp pissing on his pants. However the best response he could explicit out of her was a high curved brow, as if to imply that she hadn't been daunted in the slightest, and somehow, the gesture also appeared expectant of his response.

"You," before he could muster out a reply, an unusual calmness simmered his temper down and that was when it hit him. With eyes pulsed wide, Bakugo stared and the realization sunk in, like an unburied secret: ". . . the shitty hero."

Blue Hair smiled this time. Her smile might have even gone on for a mile, if he hadn't mentioned the shitty part. Not like it mattered, to be honest. She might as well still be one. "Seriously," her hands were on her hips as she shook her head in slight disappointment. "Then again, we haven't formally met, have we?"

Stretching his neck till he heard a satisfying pop, Bakugo snorted. "I don't give a shit about who you are."

"Oh, always the pleasant conversationalist, you," Blue Hair retorted in that same smartass tone she used in the past. While he wasn't fond with the memory at all, he was keen enough to note that there was an edge to her smile. Less bare teeth, more closelipped . . . sharper.

Bakugo didn't go so far as to address that miniscule detail. After all, she was just a weak Pro Hero he met again by chance, some small impermanent fixture in his life that might as well pass off as a random fly. That, and he didn't know her, not that he should anyway. However he was quick to note her dramatic change in appearance: no longer was the tattered form-fitting hero costume, but instead was a billowy white nurse's uniform, stitched with a familiar logo from a college he'd seen somewhere in Kantobito Ward.

Bakugo wouldn't say she looked impressive, even without all those cuts and bruises. The first thought that struck him was _overworked_. There were dark circles under her eyes, making her skin seem more sallow than naturally pale beneath all that make-up. The image reminded him of his mother in a bad day. For all the Glycerin in her pores, nothing concealed the old hag beneath.

A sardonic retort was ready to deride on her stressed face—doing so was just for heck of it—and he wouldn't have held himself back if Blue Hair hadn't taken a step closer and examined his legs.

Her arms were folded over her chest. There was a bright red band aid on her pinkie. "So it's skinned knees this time," Blue Hair stated, and Bakugo was damn well sure she didn't have a Quirk that could see through clothes, "and . . . that kind of hurts," she then touched her right shoulder, penciled eyebrows scrunching. Her amber eyes pulsed wide. "Are you . . . you're _bleeding_ somewhere."

Before Bakugo could react with a handful of explosions on his palms, her hand shot forward and grabbed him by the wrist. He always prided himself for his fast reflexes, but she was a bit faster, just like how he remembered her in that playground. Like a snap of her fingers, he was quelled in an instant and the motivation to detonate her to kingdom come fizzled out of him.

Blue Hair removed his thick-sleeved jacket. "Stay still, idiot."

Bakugo barked out, "Let me go, you—"

"So you _are_ bleeding," Blue Hair sighed upon the sight of his shoulder; pulled up by its torn sleeve, there was a hideous lesion on his skin. It wasn't gaping open, but it was jagged and angry and the kind of battle scar his mother would grill him on for days on end. The blood was staining a dark red patch through his shirt, trickling on the ground, insulting him.

And finally the million dollar question: "Kid, do you always pick fights?"

There went the _tap tap tap_ of her foot again, and Bakugo might as well be a ticking time bomb at this point because he's still fresh from a brawl and the shitty meeting he had the misfortune of getting himself into was already stoking the flames of his temper. It took her some damn time, though. The three clobbered delinquents, who dumbly thought they could wreck the shit out of him, were still down and unconscious on the floor. Only then did she acknowledge their presence— _beneath_ him, of course.

Bakugo ripped his arm from her hold, crimson drops spattering on the pavement. "Yeah, and so what?" Bakugo testily wiped the blood on the ground, covering weakness with the dirt of his shoe. "They were pissing me off."

With flagged shoulders, Blue Hair crouched down to one of them for inspection. "That was kind of harsh," she commented on the burn he marked on the scumbug's exposed shoulder; it was just as ugly and brutal as his own wound was, a retaliation branded with violence.

Huffing in indignation, Bakugo crossed his arms over his chest. He didn't allow his inflictions to ruin the unyielding unbent profile of him now, even when his open wound was starting to bite him in the ass and the spent adrenaline was clawing unto his taut muscles, creaking the bones beneath. His hand clenched into a fist. "They started it, fucking assholes."

"Still in pain, huh," Blue Hair muttered to the delinquent, almost rendering him tense at the offhanded words. "Burns, bruises, and you somehow managed to dislocate this one's shoulder. . ."

"What are you? Some kind of mind-reader?"

"Something like that," came her answer with a half-hearted shrug, not intending to elaborate further.

"It's a good thing I brought my kit today," Blue Hair rummaged through her wide carrying bag, fishing out a square plastic case from inside. "Jeez, kid, are you trying to kill them?"

Watching her extract the contents of her med kit, Bakugo scoffed. "That's the point, shit face."

"Well, I could see why you tried," Blue Hair didn't disagree and that was something that made his ears perk, made him a little more attentive to her than he should have anticipated. She breathed in. "They're very mean-spirited, these delinquents." Her stare trailed on a flick knife beside a limp body, a slick crimson smear coated on its blade.

Despite himself, Bakugo didn't rout out a reply. Why he hadn't done so, he wasn't sure and he should care less; unlike her, some meddlesome stranger that let poignant disappointment glisten in her amber eyes, almost like a dull busting light from a desolate street, all bleak and rueful. That annoyed him. It was just a waste of time after all. Lamenting over a bunch of hopeless lowlifes who weren't even worth batting an eyelash for.

"So," Blue Hair started, snapping him back from his ruminations. A disarming smile curled the corners of her lips once she offered a hand. "You want to be treated first or no?"

Bakugo postured into a defensive stance, setting off the threat of fiery sparks from his palm. That might as well serve as a middle finger in front of her face. He did admit to himself that the intimate scent of smoke eased him a little.

Unaffected, Blue Hair got the message. "A 'fuck no' then, huh. Sure."

"Here," a powder-blue towel was thrown at his direction; Bakugo caught it in a nick of time, just inches before it could hit his face. Some part of him didn't mind the prospect of her offending him with a stupid towel because it meant he had a reason to obliterate something. "Cover it up until it stops bleeding and grip it hard. You're making a mess."

"Don't order me around!" Bakugo hollered, binding the towel tautly over his shoulder. It wasn't like he hadn't listened in those mandatory first aid programs in his school. Scrutinizing her tending to one of the delinquent-scum's wounds, he glared incriminatingly at her. As if they had a will of their own, his mouth formed the question: "what are you doing?"

"Helping," Blue Hair told him, lending an ear to that asshole's blubbering nonsense—because he was still damn unconscious. Applying plaster over his cut, she nodded anyway, as if she was having a normal conversation with him in a fucking pleasant day. Strangely enough, the pained contortions in his battered face seemed to ease away into a serene one.

Aside from that, that wasn't the answer he wanted. Bakugo meant what she was doing _helping_ them, of all the pieces of shit in this street.

And that positively riled him, no surprise there. "I thought you said they were human trash."

"Yeah, they must be," Blue Hair didn't have half the mind to disagree either, which threw him off in a lot of ways.

Bakugo narrowed it down, his voice sharp as a knife. "So why are you helping them?"

Too occupied bandaging a wounded hand, Blue Hair didn't even spare a look at him. "Why shouldn't I?"

 _Saving someone, anyone really, as much as you can . . . that's—_

"Tch, whatever."

Incensed and somewhat betrayed, Bakugo kicked nothing in particular, some damn dust maybe, and turned his head away. His shoe met the neck of a broken liquor bottle, trampling it into cluttered shards under his heel. Shoving his hands on his pockets, he stomped on ahead and started to leave. He didn't have to stay here in the goddamn first place.

"Hey, kid, I'm not done with you," her voice raised behind him and the feeling of reconsideration sprung from his chest; a feeling, he understood, that hadn't been instigated by him. Regardless, it worked—whatever nuisance of a Quirk she had—because he halted just before he could take another step forward. "You still have that wound."

"Shut it," Bakugo snarled, swerving back to confront her in his outrage. "I don't need your fucking help."

As if she hadn't heard him loud and clear, Blue Hair suggested instead: "how about this, kid," she began, her voice even and stubborn, "since you're doing a phenomenal job at hiding your injuries, let me take care of them and no one will ever know about this. Sounds good?"

Bakugo scoffed. "Fuck off."

"I'll tell your mom."

His eyes shaped into dangerous slits. "You don't know who my mom is, moron."

Blue Hair tapped her forehead implicatively. "Try me," her lips crooked into a smirk. "Ba-ku-go-kun."

 _Damn it, fucking mind-reader._

" _Fine,_ " grouched Bakugo through gritted teeth, thinking of blowing up her face for compensation. He flexed his fingers, knuckles cracking. "But you better be quick about it, and if I hear a word about this to anyone, you're dead meat, got it?"

"Yessir," Blue Hair replied, chuckling to herself, as she began to finish treating the scumbugs on the ground. "It's not like I'm going to tell your friends."

"I don't have those," Bakugo divulged, and with the tone he went with, he didn't mean to garner pity or some sappy crap like that, but to state out bluntly that the sad excuse that were friends were just a waste of time—his time, especially. He's too good and important for that, and as to make a point, he gnarled out: "tch, not that I need it." However affirming himself in front of her—just because he was right—had never felt so _irking_ ; she stared at him in silence, as if she was reading him thoroughly. He wasn't a fucking book. "What's with that look, blue hair?"

"Oh nothing," her head cocked to the side, a lock of hair falling over her shoulder. An amused grin slowly split half of her face. "So it's blue hair now, eh? Is that supposed to be a step-up from shit face or something?"

"If that's the case, I'll go back to shit face then."

"Brat."

Her retort was joined with a thin smile, one full of humor—and strain. Her lips were paler than he last recalled, so was her entire complexion, from her perspiring forehead to the tips of her fingers. The woman currently tending him might as well be a ghost. Bakugo was about to point it out, if she hadn't caught him off guard when she unraveled the bound towel on his shoulder and began to clean the scar for him.

Bakugo had never been one to complicate himself over the complexities of treating a lesion. It was nothing more but a flesh wound, really. It wasn't like he'd never had one before—but he's working on it, to leave a fray unscathed. Moreover, he was always content with the idea of dousing his wounds with iodine and going through with the harsh burn of an antiseptic. None of the cool balm of an antibiotic and the soft roll of sterile bandages.

Accomplishing the task with a secure knot, Blue Hair heaved out a breath. "There." She smiled on her handiwork before taking out a water bottle from her bag and chugging it down. Screwing back the cap of her half-empty bottle, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand. She sniffed—and then sniffed again. "I don't really have the right equipment to close the wound so you still have to let a doctor check that up, all right?"

Blood dripped from the pavement. It wasn't his.

His face jerked into that of bewildered confusion, his brows scrunching together. "The hell's wrong with your nose?"

"Oh god," Blue Hair lifted her head up as she fished out a handkerchief to cover her nose. Slinking back to an old sturdy crate, she let herself sit on it, despite the filth clinging onto her white skirt. Only then did he notice that her knees looked like they were about to give in on her with the manner they trembled a little. She was muttering hotly under her breath: ". . . shouldn't have taken an all-nighter, damn papers."

"What's your deal?" Bakugo closed in, mulling over if this had something to do with her Quirk. He arched a brow. "Are you actually dying?"

Of course, he didn't mean it _literally_. If anything, he was rudely remarking about her piss-poor constitution.

Blue Hair frowned sourly. "I'm not dying, you little shit."

Her mood rankled. Coupled with her bloody nose and disposition, Bakugo took delight in her aggravation.

"Doesn't seem like it. You're weak, you know that?"

Blue Hair rolled her eyes, her nose pinched. "I'm _tired_ ," she needlessly emphasized. "Wish I had coffee. Buy me one, kid."

Attempting to roll his bandaged shoulder, Bakugo didn't twitch at the movement and snatched back his jacket; cloaking his arms with its sleeves and adjusting its cuffs, he then interjected, "Buy it yourself."

"Figures." Blue Hair replied with a shrug. Crossing her legs, she sent him a long considerate look. She sniffed again. "I guess . . . it's only fair that I should also give you my name since I know yours."

To his surprise, Bakugo found himself anticipating for it.

Finally removing the distracting handkerchief on her face, Blue Hair pulled her mouth into a feeble half-smile. "You can call me Shinobu," she said, stopping in a fraction, "just . . . Shinobu."

 _No last name,_ Bakugo took note. Scratching the back of his head, he casually stuffed his hand on his pocket. "I don't know. Shit face is kind of growing on me."

That bristled her. Her brow twitched. "Aren't you an ungrateful brat."

Bakugo felt a smirk tug on his lips, a little less derisive than usual. "You're fucking welcome."

Blue Hair—Shinobu—sighed out her frustrations and didn't retort further. With a cool shrug, she eased into a tolerant smile. "Real charmer, aren't you? Well, I suppose it's nice seeing you again, Bakugo-kun," she said, already sensing his intent to part away, and then as to impart advice, she reminded: "no more fighting next time, okay?"

His eyes rolled at that one. Bakugo would have went on questioning her what she was still doing here staying in this shithole with those useless dipshits on the ground, but he held himself back when he noticed her take out her phone, scrolling on her contacts. Maybe, to call someone to pick up this mess. Regardless, he simply grunted and left. Somewhere along the way muttering out his thanks that she might as well have mistaken for a low grumble. He couldn't tell, really. Hell, it didn't even matter.

No use blubbering out crappy goodbyes because it's not like they were going to meet again in the near future. Separated from the confines of a dark alleyway, he was insensitively greeted by the bustle of a moving crowd and the scorch of the afternoon sun. He didn't feel like complaining, but before he was about to trod along and mind his own business, he felt oddly _light_. As if he hadn't been burdened by his previous fight.

Bakugo tentatively moved his shoulder. _No pain._

Shinobu pulled another fast one on him, that's for sure. Bakugo would have argued that he didn't want the extra favor though there's no use screaming at her like a madman now because she was calling someone over her phone and her nose is probably bleeding again with way she was wrapping it around with that overused handkerchief. He huffed irritatedly. Besides it didn't really bother him that much anymore, the unneeded help.

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 **A/N:** I wasn't really expecting feedback from this, but it's welcome and I'm grateful! So far, what I have planned for this story may come more as random shorts with odd timeskips, and as for plot, we'll get there. As for Shinobu's Quirk, she's not a mind-reader, just saying that out. She's good at misleading, though.

Also for the Kacchako fans out there, a shout out to ionlycamefortacos's **All Grown Up**. It's a great story that's good at tugging at your heartstrings. If you're itching for more content between this pairing, try this one. You won't regret it!


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